Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: miles davis (page 1 of 5)

In Which, Through Fits And Starts, A Twist, Undreamt Of By The Typist ‘Fore His Sitting, Occurs

I don’t even know what to say to you at this point.

“How about ‘What a splendid toppermost, John?'”

No. Definitely not that.

“I like to look on the outside how I feel on the inside, and today I feel like an Albuquerque dentist’s office in 1978.”

Nailed it.

“Thank you. Honestly, man? I don’t know what I love most about clothes: buying them, wearing them, or washing them. But, you know, if you think about it: those three things are intertwined. I have a really involved metaphor comparing tee-shirts to the Holy Trinity, if you’d like to hear it.”

I would not. Seriously, what the fuck is that garment?

“I can’t keep telling you this. It is called a toppermost. It’s neither a kimono nor a robe, and it’s certainly not a coat.”

You can’t define words that way.

“Just watch me.”

Got me there.

“The toppermost is one of several articles of clothing that poor people don’t know about. Like footkerchiefs.”

Are those like handkerchiefs?

“Sort of.”

What else?

“An aglellon.”

What is that?

“It’s like a hat for your neck.”

You’re making this all up.

“I will send you a video of my aglellon closet. I’ll edit it into a trying-on-outfits montage like in chick flicks.”

I would like to see that. Hey, speaking of chicks: you have to make it to the end of this tour without getting accused of anything.

“It’s like a feeding frenzy.”

Just gotta make it to the end of the tour. You know that we’ve all grown fond of you, but if drag the Dead into the Problem Attic with you, Deadhead assassins will be dispatched.

“Deadhead assassins?”

Yeah. They’re not the best. Far more dangerous to themselves than to you. But you’ll be in a very odd state of existence forevermore: nonstop attempts on your life, but all of them doomed to fail.

“Dude, it’ll be fine. And nothing’s happening this tour, anyway. I’ve settled down.”

Oh, God.

“Bitch, who you talking to?”

“No one important, Daddy.”

“I forgot my fucking robe. Gimme your toppermost.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I simply do not know what’s going on here.

“It’s called love, you simple motherfucker. Bitch was respectful, educated. Learned how to cook my food right. Asshole real tight. Talked too fucking much, but I trained that out of him. Moved him in to the house in the City.”

You’re gay now?

BANG!

Saw that coming.

“Miles fucking Davis ain’t a fucking sissy. Nothing gay about fucking a man. Getting fucked by a man? That’s some gay-ass shit.”

I don’t think that’s how it works.

“No one asked your opinion on my fucking love life.”

Love?

“Yeah. I didn’t see it coming. Surprised me.”

Me, too.

“Thinking about letting him get gay married to me.”

“It would just be married, Daddy.”

JAZZ SLAP!

“What the fuck did I tell you about correcting me in public?”

“That you appreciated constructive criticism?”

JAZZ SLAP!

“That was in private, you dumb bitch.”

“Oh! Right! I got them confused. I thought ‘Speak up in public and be quiet in private’ but now that I think about it, it just makes no sense. I’m a scatterbrain.”

JAZZ PUNCH!

“Not in the face, Daddy! I need that!”

Please, Miles Davis, stop beating your fiance, John Mayer.

“When he stops needing a fucking beating.”

This is getting truly dark.

“Shouldn’t have fucking brought me here, you didn’t want me to be myself.”

None of this is my fault.

“Now fuck off. We going aglellon shopping.”

Sure.

Badman And Robin

“Fucking exhausting.”

What?

“Being a genius.”

Tell me about it.

BANG!

“Don’t you ever compare yourself to me.”

You’re right. I apologize.

“I did some acting. Went down to Miami. Did that cop show. What was that shit called? The No Sock-Wearing Motherfuckers Hour?”

Miami Vice.

“Yeah, right. These motherfuckers call me up. I’m out on Long Island. Swimming every day. Hip feels good. I’m strong. I’m masculine. They tell me how great I am. Want me to be on their show. Got one question. Could I act?”

What did you say?

“I flew down to Miami, found the motherfucker said that dumb shit to me, and punched him in his Jew nose. Might have been an Italian nose. Maybe Greek. Big motherfucker. Then I pissed on him in front of his coworkers. You can’t take no shit from these Hollywood motherfuckers.”

Good advice.

“They got me playing a pimp. Got a cane and shit. I asked the producer why I couldn’t be playing a doctor. Father was a fucking dentist, I can’t be a doctor? I became angry.”

Did you hit him with the cane?

“I did.”

Yeah. Other than that, how’d it go?

“Shit, acting is fucking easy. It’s just lying.”

And standing in the right place.

“They’re obsessed with that shit. Wanna thank you for hooking me up with your boy. We getting along.”

Josh? Oh, no. You two are friends now? And going on adventures?

“We ain’t friends. We have a relationship.”

What?”

“Bitch!”

“Yes, Daddy?”

Oh, no. What’s happened here?

“You may answer, bitch.”

“I have been turned out.”

Oh, this is not what I wanted to happen.”

“And yet it did. Miles Da–”

“What the fuck you call me?”

“–Daddy has claimed me as his bitch and is now earning off my ass.”

I’m sorry, buddy. Why are you dressed like that?

“Did you know there were Furry marathoners?”

I didn’t.

“There are. And nine of them just jerked off on me.”

“And paid you for it! Bring me my fucking money.”

I didn’t intend this.

“Help me.”

No.

Otherwise Known As The Chickenshit Show

Jeff Chimenti looks like a beloved high school music teacher who’s also a member in good standing of his local BDSM community.

OR

Billy and Oteil have both noticed the meatball the intern is holding aloft. This will not end well; Billy loves meatballs, and interns. Oteil also enjoys meatballs, but no one’s getting tackled for one. Billy’s gonna tackle the intern.

OR

All new on CBS this season: Friends. Due to legal incompetence on the part of Warner Brothers, the rights to remake Friends became available, so CBS cast these six and they perform the episodes line-for-line. It’s fucking terrible. (Bobby used to be a Joey, but now he’s a Phoebe. Mickey is Ross. Josh banged Rachel.)

OR

Can Mickey still fit the merch he’s yoinked these past few tours into a storage space, or does he need a warehouse?

OR

ATTENTION PLEASE: Billy has new sneakers.

OR

I can’t see his feet. Is Oteil in his goddamned flippity-flops? Bobby had the sense of decorum to put on his formal socks, but I think Oteil is going full flop. You are not running into a Sarasota Publix in for a chicken tender sub and a sweet tea, Oteil. At least Bobby’s sandals are made of leather.

Pss pss pss.

I am being informed that there are such a thing as vegan sandals, and even if Bobby didn’t care, he would most likely wear them just so not to get protested by Lilian Monster.

OR

What is that?

“My toppermost?”

Your kimono.

“No, no. It’s a Japanese-influenced men’s toppermost designed by Givenchy in associated with streetFUVK”

There’s no such thing as a toppermost.

“You only know about poor people clothes. We have access to shit you’ve never heard of.”

Uh-huh.

“This is what I like to call ‘Fun John.’ Real playful, just mixing and matching and, you know, trying to display my own style. I’m always thinking ‘What is my aesthetic?'”

What is your aesthetic?

“Guy who spent an hour deciding what to wear.”

You nailed it. What is that garment made of?

“Ultrasilk.”

Is that like ultrasuede? A synthetic?

“No, it’s real silk, but much fancier. The worms are all wearing little tuxedos–get this–made from the silk that they themselves produced. It’s self-sufficiency in action.”

Is it expensive?

“Oh my God, yes.”

Ballpark it for me.

“Where are we?”

What?

“I wanna know how far my dollar goes. We could buy a town in most countries for what this thing cost.”

We’re in America.

“You could start your own business.”

Pre-built space or custom structure?

“The second thing.”

Goddammit, Josh Meyers.

“Don’t call me that. Don’t worry about how I spend my money.”

I’m not worried. I’m judgmental.

“Kiss my ass. What should I do with my money?”

Take as much of it as you need for yourself and give the rest to the poor.

“I will not.”

Well, there you go.

“And of course you’d say to give my money to the poor. You’re the poor.”

I’m just repeating the words of some Jewish guy I met once.

“You would buy just as much stupid bullshit as me if you had a nickel to your name. Easy to make a decision for someone else when you’ll never face it.”

You’re right. Absolutely right. Tell you what: you give me all your money. Then you’ll see that I would live up to my words and distribute it to the needy.

“This is a trick.”

It is.

“You wouldn’t give the money away.”

I would.

“I don’t believe you.”

If you’re feeling froggy, leap.

“What if I gave you a little bit of money and saw if you gave that away? Like, as a test.”

No. I will keep and squander any amount of money less than all. All or nothing. Maximum Christ, baby.

“I’m gonna pass.”

“I like that toppermost, boy.”

“Them other white boys look like homeless lumberjacks or some shit. Hats on indoors. They lucky I got a cocktail.”

“Oh, wow, Mr. Davis. Hi. My name is John Mayer.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

“I am such an enormous fan of your music. I have every one of your albums, every single one. You’re one of the most important men in musical history. In American history! It’s just such an honor. Wow.”

“In the key of E flat, what does the C minor resolve to?”

“G minor.”

“You see this medal?”

“I do.”

“You holding?”

“We are. Collectively.”

“Gather that shit up. Those motherfuckers look smelly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nice. Respectful. Hey, motherfucker.”

“Me?”

“The other motherfucker.”

Me?

“Yeah. Why didn’t you introduce me to this white boy before? I like this young man.”

Awwwwww. I wanted you to hate him.

“I’m fucking unpredictable.”

Aw.

Begun, These Rando Wars Have

Don’t you say–

“Rando War!”

–Rando War. Goddammit, Oteil. You’re above this.

“I’m not.”

Okay.

“You would not believe how many more randos I attract since I started singing lead. They’re like moths, and I’m a bug zapper.”

Are you electrocuting randos to death?

“Not randos. Not plural.”

You’re really becoming a true Grateful Dead, Oteil.

“I’m settling in.”

“Oh, is Rando War back on?”

 


“BOOM, I just won Rando War.”

There are no winners in a Rando War, Jeff Chimenti. Just death. And randos.

“But look how many I have!”

Venture not down this path, Jeff Chimenti.

“Kiss my balls.”

Everyone’s a dick tonight.

“Quit whining, motherfucker. Don’t bring your bitch shit to a Rando War.”

Oh, not you, too.

“Rando War is over. I won. Tell all them white motherfuckers to go home and kiss on each other.”

That’s Wynton Marsalis.

“Motherfucker’s a rando to me.”

Ow.

“I’m a cold motherfucker. You see my shirt?”

I do.

“That shit’s the truth.”

None of this makes any sense any longer.

“Whose fucking fault is that?”

True.

“You can pick off my cheese plate if you want.”

Thank you, Mr. Davis.

“It’s the little moments of humanity that make Rando War such a fucking tragedy.”

If you say so.

Sketches Of Oklahoma

Goddamn, you look good, Mr. Davis.

“I know.”

What are those trousers made of?

“Masculinity. And some sort of reptile.”

You always were a snappy dresser.

“That’s what I hated about those fucking hillbilly bands I used to have to play with. Sloppy little white children. If they was my white children, I’d drown ’em in the fucking tub. What’s that ugly motherfucker’s name with the high voice?”

Geddy Lee.

“Nah.”

Steve Perry.

“Nah.”

Neil Young.

“That’s him. Big gawky motherfucker. Played with him in New York for that Jew who was always yelling and trying to steal from me.”

Bill Graham.

“That’s him. Neil Young. Yeah. Couldn’t bear to fucking look at him. Got sweat under his armpits, jeans all stained. Motherfucker looked like the bum the other bums use as a cautionary tale. Smelled like an asshole left in the sun. It angered me. I didn’t like it. And his band was worse. I slapped his bass player on principle.”

Of course you did.

“Keith Jarrett showed up for a gig looking like that once. I kicked him real hard in the chest. Man needs to be clean. Look his best. Cut his hair. Take a fucking shower now and then. Shape the fuck up.”

“HE’S RIGHT, MAN. EV’RYBODY’S ALL SLOPPY SUSIES NOWADAYS.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

Oh, shit. This won’t end well.

“WE ALL KNEW AH WOULD BE HERE EVENTUALLY, MAN.”

“This motherfucker?”

He just shows up. Sorry, Mr. Davis.

“COME AN’ ADMIRE MAH JEW’RY. AH HAVE BOTH A JEWISH STAR AND A JESUS CROSS. THIS HONORS ALL THE MAJOR FAITHS O’ SHOW BIZNESS.”

“He crazy?”

Yes. Oh, and he’s most likely gonna–

“MILES DAVIS, AH CHALLENGE YOU T’ KARATE!”

–challenge you to karate.

“Karate my dick, motherfucker.”

BANG!

“AH GOT GUNS, TOO, BOY!”

BANG!

“Who the fuck you calling ‘boy?'”

BANG!

Yeah, this was the only way this could end.

To The Dead, We Owe Only Truth

If those two men were alive to read the papers today, they’d be sweating their asses off. Because–and let’s not let their talent cloud our eyes–both of them were worse in every way than almost all of the men that have gotten in trouble the past few weeks. No one’s masculinity was more toxic than these two fuckheads. Ah, well. Better dead than in the Problem Attic.

(It’s tough to secure a berth in the Problem Attic posthumously. Ty Cobb did, due to that hack sportswriter’s pack of lies about him; Jimmy Saville, too, but there were plenty of rumors about him before he kicked off.)

AND

That guy on the right is fucking killing it.

Cold, Sweat

You look terrible.

“It’s fucking tough being a genius.”

Tell me about it.

“It’s that third set. Billy Eckstine taught me about that. You probably don’t even know who the fuck Billy Eckstine was, you uncultured fucking cracker. Goddamn, I’m tired of explaining shit to white people. Africans built the fucking pyramids while you dummies was getting eaten by bears and shit.”

I’m Jewish. We built the pyramids.

“The historicity of that claim is dubious at fucking best.”

True.

“Billy Eckstine was clean, man. Motherfucker got his socks tailored. He was a pretty man, and all the black bitches loved him. The white bitches, too. When we’d go to Los Angeles, there would be Oriental bitches, and they would love him. We called him B. Taught me how to get the right dimple in my tie, how to sniff cocaine, proper way to slap a bitch. Motherfucker taught me everything.”

You were talking about a third set?

“Motherfucker, don’t do so much. Just lay the fuck back while I’m telling a story. No one’s reading this shit for you.”

Ow.

“Truth fucking hurts. So, B used to talk about playing the third set. Go to the club at night and play two there. Then, after that, there’s that third set. Maybe you fucking. Maybe you getting high. Maybe you getting high and fucking. Whatever. Third set. Can’t play three sets every fucking night. Ain’t no one got the constitution for that.”

That’s pretty good advice. Did you take it?

“Fuck, no. I’m Miles fucking Davis. I do seven, eight sets a night if I fucking want.”

Sure. Aren’t you worried about burning yourself out?

“Nah. I’m a physical man. I take my exercise. Do all sorts of shit. Ride my horses, swim, lift weights.”

Yeah, we’ve seen.

“Always like trying new exercise shit. I’m into that.”

“Have you ever considered taking up hockey, Mr. Davis?”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Hi, Mr. Davis. I’m David Lemieux.”

“Goddamn, you a white motherfucker.”

“Hockey is some of the best cardiovascular exercise you can get. It would increase your wind.”

“This is some sort of fucking white person trick. I ain’t getting out on that ice.”

“It’s no trick, Mr. Davis.”

“You ever see a black man play hockey before?”

“When you are or when I am? Because in 2017, several of the game’s most talented players–”

BANG!

“Oh, no! American gun violence!”

ARCHIVIST SKATING AWAY NOISE

“Get the fuck back here and let me shoot you, motherfucker!”

TRUMPETER TRYING TO RUN ON ICE NOISE

“Mr. Davis, can’t we–”

“No!”

BANG!

“I’m sorry, Mr. Davis. I love your music. Wish I didn’t have to.”

“Have to what?”

SLAP

THONK

flump

Dave, I think you killed Miles Davis.

“David. And, no, I can see him breathing.”

Got him right in the forehead.

“Yeah, but I was aiming for his dick.”

I won’t tell.

“Nice of you.”

Miles On Democracy

What is this?

“Decided to try out being one of you hillbilly motherfuckers. It’s nice. I see why you’re all so fucking happy all the time. Listen to some bullshit song about your fucking truck. Eat some spaghetti with fucking ketchup on it. String up a n—-r.”

Please stop saying that word.

“I’m allowed to say n—-r. I’m a racist white motherfucker.”

Wow, does that not make any sense.

“C’mon, let’s say the fucking Pledge of Allegiance.”

No. It was Election Day today, Mr. Davis. You a regular voter?

“Fuck that. I ain’t down with democracy.”

You’re not down with democracy? Why not?

“All men are created equal. That’s the foundation of that shit, right?”

Yes.

“I ain’t fucking equal. I’m better than everybody. I should get a couple hundred votes. Any system gives Miles Davis and Steve Miller the same amount of votes is bullshit.”

You’re still mad about Steve Miller.

“Motherfucker, I’m still mad about everything I was ever mad about.”

Sure.

“But especially that no-playing motherfucker. I shared stages with the greatest fucking musicians on the planet and I gotta open for this teenybopper motherfucker? Yelling about ‘Somebody get me a cheeseburger.’ I’ll shove a cheeseburger up your fucking ass, motherfucker. Take some fucking music lessons.”

“Oh, great. You’re still here.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Mr Davis? I’m Amir Bar-Lev and this is my daughter Hamentashen.”

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“We’re big fans.”

“Course you are. I’m a fucking genius.”

“And it’s such an honor to meet you. Just such an honor.”

“Hey, the other Jewish asshole.”

Me?

“Yeah. You see how your cousin treats me?”

He’s not my cousin. We’re not all related.

“He’s respectful. Doesn’t bitch about my language and ask me stupid fucking questions and make me talk to Russian dictators.”

And he’s a great director. You should let him do a movie about you.

“They already did one. It was fucking bullshit. Only good thing about it was they didn’t cast no light-skinned motherfucker to play me. Other than that, nothing good about it. Motherfucker wants to make a movie about me, he gotta make a pornographic film. Show off my fucking.”

You do see his kid standing there, right?

“Gotta shoot that shit in 70mm. I stroke long.”

Can we be done here?

“Go get me another Seven & Seven.”

Yes, sir.

Suit, Coat

You look like you’re in Mummenschanz.

“Suck my Mummenschanz.”

But you sound like you’re you.

“I pushed Wynton Marsalis down the stairs four times. Spaced that shit out, too. Didn’t do it all in one month. Took years. I might push that motherfucker down the stairs tomorrow. His brother, too. And his father aint shit. Whole family makes me angry.”

Why is this, Mr. Davis?

“No respect. Man says nasty things.”

About you?

“Me. Bird. All the motherfuckers he stole all his licks from. Rude young man. Headbutted Art Blakey.”

I haven’t heard that story.

“No story. Little motherfucker walked up to Art and headbutted him.”

Where was this?

“Well, Wynton was there, so it was probably some white thing. White people love that smiling motherfucker. Doesn’t scare them. Talks real nice. I don’t understand that shit. Most the time, the only fun you get as a black man in America is scaring white people. Pushing motherfuckers down stairs is fun, too.”

I guess. Can we switch topics?

“Fuck you.”

Mr. Davis, do you have any dating advice for the Enthusiasts?

“You’re looking for my moves?”

Sure.

“Yeah, okay. First, you find you a bitch.”

Right.

“Then, you tell that bitch ‘I’m Miles Davis.'”

Uh-huh.

“Then, you ask her, ‘Bitch, you wash your pussy today?'”

Um.

“If she says no, then you only allow to her to suck on you.”

Wow.

“And then, she gives you money.”

Do you have any dating tips for a normal human being?

“Fuck, no.”

“Hey, Miles. We got an extra seat, man.”

“Fuck kinda hat is that? You lose a bet, motherfucker?”

“It’s my vacation hat, man. You wanna come or not?”

“Where you going?”

“Hawaii.”

“Lemme get my bathing suit.”

Hey, Garcia.

“What, man? I’m on vacation.”

Quick question.

“Real quick.”

Do you have any dating tips for the Enthusiasts?

“Sure, man. First, you find a chick.”

Right.

“Then, you have Parish make sure she knows you’re a rock star.”

No more advice.

“Hey, Miles! You coming!?”

“Don’t hurry me, you fat Mexican motherfucker.”

You two have fun.

When The Swag Met The Benj

Benjy, you be nice to Swaggie Maggie.

“I’m the nicest guy in the world.”

She’s a sweet young woman who is just starting out in this world. Do not instigate foolishness.

“Dude, you’re talking to the wrong person. Watched her lift three wallets and pull a chick’s hair extensions out for eyeballing her.”

Swaggie Maggie?

“I’m pretty sure she’s carrying a knife.”

I’m ignoring you. What have you been up to?

“Talking to lawyers. I, too, am a victim of sexual harassment. I am a brave survivor.”

Benjy, Billy did not sexually harass you.

“It started small. I believe he was grooming me. Comments about my appearance. Waking me up with his sack on my face. He liked when I watched him brush his teeth. He would, like, tongue the toothbrush while making eye contact with me in the mirror.”

None of this occurred.

“At least once a week, he would tell me that I looked sick and take my temperature.”

“Not in my mouth.”

“Rect–”

We all get it, Benj.

“–ally. Okay. And, honestly? I don’t think it was a thermometer some of the times.”

It’s not right that you’re saying these things.

“We were out by the pool once, and he made me bounce my junk on the diving board.”

No.

“He called it Cannonballing.”

You are not telling the truth.

“On numerous occasions, Billy sicced the skank on me.”

You can’t sic skank.

“Tell that to the skank and my nipples. They were puffed out like cherries for a week.”

What did the skank do to your nipples, Benjy?

“I don’t want to talk about it. Hurts too much.”

You feel emotional pain over the incident, I understand.

“No, my nipples still hurt.”

Ah. Benjy, everything you’re saying is fake news.

“Da. Is fake news. Hello, Svaggie Maggie.”

Oh, no.

“Putin get svole for young chickiedoodle. Come to Putin, Svaggie Maggie.”

NO! You stay the hell away from Swaggie Maggie!

“Need new vife.”

Current one gonna have an accident soon?

“Da.”

You’re a monster.

“Monster vith pecs of steel. Putin vork chest and tris today, back and bis tomorrow.”

When’s leg day?

“I do leg day next veek.”

Typical.

“Svaggie Maggie vill be Putin’s new vife. She travel around vorld. Ve vill hunt, ve vill, dance, ve vill vrestle.”

Vrestle?

“You cant just change W’s to V’s across board. Must look at usage vithin vord.”

Sorry.

“Typical. Deliver me Svaggie Maggie for purposes of matrimony. She vill make good vife.”

I dunno about that. She’s kind of a pain in the ass.

“Putin vill train.”

OH, HELL NO. Get out of here.

“Excuse me? Can I interject here? Vladimir, I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Benjy Eisen. We’ve been in a couple of storylines togeth–”

thwip

FLUMP

“Da. I remember you.”

Goddammit, stop blowdarting people.

“Nyet. Now bring Putin Svaggie Maggie.”

“Hey, motherfucker. You think you’re a man with those little-ass fucking weights?”

“You on the little girl machine. Trying to build up your titties.”

“Are nyet called titties, Miles David. Are pecs.”

“Big fat white titties. Rub on them titties while I lift weights.”

“Putin have chest like Perun. Pecs made of thunder.”

“God of thunder’s name is Thor, you Trotsky-stabbing motherfucker.”

Guys? Would you mind knocking it off?

BANG!

thwip

Yeah, okay, neither of you can actually kill me. Listen: Swaggie Maggie has left, so there’s nothing to argue about any more.

“The fuck there isn’t. Bench press time, motherfucker.”

“Da. Putin get belt.”

I’ll leave you two to it.

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